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CARRIER  DOVE  PRINTING  AND  PUBLISHING  CO. 
841  MARKICT  STRKKT,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAI., 
188O. 


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c£/  ie) 


To  PARKER  PILLSBURY, 

The  Tried  and  Fearless  Friend  of  Human  Freedom,  and 

Unfaltering  Advocate  of  Peace,  is  this  Little 

Book  Dedicated. 


COPYRIGHT  i?pb. 
BY  S.  I.  DARING. 


3G4775 


PS 


Le. 


O — "  Reapers  of  Men,"  let  us  reason;together  ! 

Fling  down  the  sharp  blade  that  brings  sorrow  and  waste, 
Then  pause  till  the  clear,  chiding  voice  of  the  spirit 

Hath  questioned  and  judged  of  this  murderous  haste, 

The  harvest  is  small,  for  the  hands  have  been  many 
That  grasped  at  the  sickle  ere  scarce  had  been  sown 

The  seed  that  should  slowly  have  grown  to  its  fruitage 
And  swelled  with  its  richness,  each  plant  with  its  own  • 

Have  pity,  O  Reapers!  the  Lord  of  the  harvest, 

The  Spirit  that  fills  all  duration  and  space — 
The  life  of  all  things— called  you  not  with  your  sickles 

To  slay  in  unripeness  each  suffering  race  . 

The  Spirit  is  speaking  through  lips  that  are  mortal, 
And  calls  to  account  the  thought  o  our  hearts ; 

Mankind  reaches  upward  and  throngs  of  swift  angels 
Float  through  where  the  curtain  grows  thinner  and  parts. 

The  words  that  I  give  unto  me  have  been  given  ; 

My  voice  been  attuned  to  the  needs  of  the  world, 
Where  poverty,  sorrow  and  folly  and  weakness 

Are  jostling  each  other  till  brothers  are  hurled 

Far  down  the  black  depths  to  red  crimes  and  repentance. 

So  blame  not  the  measure  that  moans  like  a  dirge; 
But  lighten  the  sorrow,  remove  the  temptation, 

That  man  may  be  born  without  passions  that  surge, 

Like  over-full  rivers,  toward  woe  and  destruction — 

Be  lovingly  welcomed,  so,  born  without  hate, 
Forever  beyond  all  the  need  of  atonement. 

To  murmur  no  longer  and  question  his  fate. 

LUPA. 


MESSAGES 


-FROM  THE- 


TOWE?. 


To  Parker  Pillsbury. 


A  "Voice  in  the  wilderness"  evermore  chants, 

"Prepare  ye,  prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  Lord  !" 
And  ever  the  Few  give  heed  and  obey, 

For  few  are  the  sentinels  waiting  for  day; 
The  Many  still  dream  of  the  coming  of  light, 

And  mock  at  the  shepherds  that  watch  by  the  night — 
The  few  who  have  welcomed  the  star  of  the  morn, 

And  sought  the  low  couch  where  their  Savior  was  born, 
Who  speak  to  dull  ears,  and  forsaken,  unknown, 

Await  the  sharp  hour  of  their  torture  alone — 
Yet  ever  the  Voices,  unheard  by  the  crowd, 

Are  crying,  "Prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  Lord!" 

Would  love  wrap  the  body  in  trappings  of  state, 

And  tempters  dare  whisper  of  kingdoms  that  wait, 
With  sorrowful  gestures  they  wave  them  aside  : 

"No,  not  of  this  world  in  its  perishing  pride 
Is  the  kingdom  I  seek,  yet  the  work  that  I  do — 

The  baptism  I  bring— all  the  earth  shall  renew; 
And  they  who  would  reach  toward  the  highest  and  best 

Must  struggle  in  spirit,  with  grief  for  their  guest; 
For  only  to  these  cries  the  Voice  of  the  Word  : 

'Prepare  ye,  prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  Lord  ! '" 


MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH     TOWER. 

Dear  iriend,  with  a  tender  and  reverent  hand, 

We  softly  would  touch  the  dear  markings  of  care, 
Would  smooth  on  thy  temples  the  silvery  hair. 

And  gladly,  triumphantly,  crown  its  soft  waves 
With  glistening  laurel,  but  almost  we  hear 

The  loving  reproach  that  was  uttered  before 
By  Jesus  of  Nazareth  spoken  once  more. 

"Why  call  ye  me  good  ?    There  is  none  good — not  one. 
"Pause  not  by  the  way  ;  there  is  work  yet  undone; 

We  sowed  the  good  seed,  now  the  reapers  are  near; 
Waste  naught  of  the  harvest  whose  cost  was  so  dear. 

Up,  up,  and  to  work,  for  the  morning  and  noon 
Already  are  here,  and  night  cometh  so  soon  !  " 

O,  Voice  in  the  Wilderness,  float  to  the  heights 
And  gather  the  tones  of  the  truths  that  endure; 

Then  pierce  to  the  depths  of  earth's  falsehood  and  sin, 
Where  cunning  and  hatred,  with  clamorous  din, 

Still  wrangle  like  beasts  that  are  hungry  for  prey; 
O'ercome  their  harsh  discord  by  whispers  of  peace, 

By  faith  in  the  future  'tis  theirs  to  attain 
When  Eden,  the  Eden  of  wisdom,  they  gain. 

So  long  as  the  weak  shall  be  held  by  the  strong, 
So  long  as  the  right  shall  be  turned  into  wrong, 

So  long  may  the  ages  re-echo  the  words  : 
"Prepare  ye,  prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  Lord  !  " 

O,  faithful,  tried  Prophet,  already  the  light 

That  gleams  from  the  higher  life  brightens  thy  sight; 
The  glow  of  that  radiance  blesses  the  east, 

And  gladdens  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  west; 
The  cloudlets  of  dawn  are  now  rosy  with  hope, 

And  murder  is  hiding  the  knife  and  the  rope; 
The  nations  are  seeking  the  way  to  be  saved, 

The  way,  the  salvation,  the  Few  clearly  saw, 
From  self  and  from  forms,  from  unpurified  law. 


TO     PARKER     PILLSBURY. 


O,  strong,  fearless  Spirit,  a  little  time  wait, 
And  enter  not  yet  at  the  heavenly  gate  ! 

The  watchmen,  the  shepherds,  gaze  up  to  the  sky- 
Still  listen  and  wait,  for  the  angels  draw  nigh, 

And  soon  will  be  heard  the  glad  tidings  they  bring, 

The  song  of  "  Good  will  "  and  of  "Peace"  that  they  sing. 

Still  wait  till  thine  eyes  have  beheld  the  young  child, 
And  into  thy  face  at  baptism  it  has  smiled, 

And  then,  as  earth  fades  from  thy  lingering  gaze, 
Grown  dim  through  its  own  griefs  gathering  haze, 

May  strength  in  thy  tremulous  hand  yet  remain 
To  spread  thy  worn  mantle  o'er  those  that  still  kneel, 

And  watch  by  the  tombs  where  their  Saviors  have  lain. 


MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH     TOWER. 


The   Watchman. 

11  What  I  say  unto  you,  I  say  unto  all,  watch." 

Over  the  sea  in  castled  Spain, 

Where  the  dark-skinned  Moors  fought  hard  and  long, 

From  the  arena's  dust  and  din, 

Dulling  the  martyr's  dying  song, 

Listening,  we  hear, 

Ringing  and  clear, 
The  cry  of  the  pacing  watch  outside  : 

"Alerto  !     Sereno  !  " 

On  the  alert  for  foes  without, 

For  the  slow  approach  or  quick  surprise; 

On  the  alert  for  foes  within, 

Treason  and  dearth  and  coward  cries, 

Watching  alone, 

The  turret's  stone 
Still  echoes  no  word  of  his  but  these: 

"Alerto!     Sereno!" 

When,  in  our  haste,  we  leave  the  tower, 
And  the  warning  cry  stirs  not  our  souls, 
When  we  forget  the  pacing  guard 
Till  o'er  the  walls  the  tide  wave  rolls, 

Till  foes  are  within, 

Whose  is  the  sin  ? 
For  still  sounds  the  faithful  voice  outside: 

"Alerto  !     Sereno  !  " 

Only  by  those  who  watch  is  earned 
The  "Sereno"  time,  the  after  peace — 
Need  of  that  watch  shall  end  when  might 
Triumphs  no  more  and  war  shall  cease. 

Then  shall  the  skies 

Echo  glad  cries — 
The  shout  of  the  watchman  of  the  tower— * 

"Triunfo  !     Sereno  !  " 


A    PRAYER. 


A  Prayer. 

O,  Spirit  of  Justice  !  tell  us  where 
Thy  court  is  held  and  where  the  way 
That  leads  within  thy  holy  place! 
Thy  messengers  have  stirred  the  pool, 
The  tear-filled  pool  of  human  woe, 
Till  clutching  hands,  despairing  eyes, 
Pale,  gasping  lips  and  sunken  cheeks 
Arise  from  out  its  depths  and  plead 
For  hearts  that  have  no  voice  to  beg, 
For  help  to  save  them  from  themselves. 

We  gaze  in  horror  on  the  path 

These  wrecks  have  traveled,  and  we  see 

From  mansion  and  from  hovel,  shapes 

Of  misery  and  vice  and  crime 

Pour  forth  in  long,  unpausing  lines: 

They  steal  through  secret  alleys,  led 

By  fierce  desires  that  rage  within, 

And,  eagerly  or  slowly,  glide 

To  meet  the  future's  sure  remorse, 

To  meet  the  angel  bending  low, 

In  pitying  watch,  above  the  pool 

And  begging  every  sinking  soul 

To  reach  and  grasp  the  offered  help. 

And  yet,  though  cleansed  and  whole  they  stand, 
What  gain  has  come  from  fall  and  rise  ? 
What  wisdom  planned  the  need  of  wrong? 
If  soul  perfection  comes  to  those, 
And  only  those,  who  learn  by  sin, 
Did  He  to  whom  the  nations  pray — 
Jehovah,  Allah,  Jove  or  God, 
The  all-pervading  Mighty  One— 


MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER. 


Gain  thus  the  power  to  rule  supreme  ? 
Why  seek  we  then  to  smother  vice  ? 
Why  punish,  as  for  deadly  crime, 
Those  gaining  thus  eternal  life? 
If  only  spirits  that  repent 
Are  welcome  in  the  heavenly  home, 
(As  need  of  pardon  most  pertains 
To  him  who  carries  deepest  guilt) 
The  one  gains  most  who  sins  the  most. 

We  see  men  ask,  on  bended  knees, 

Their  God  to  lead  them  not  within 

The  dazzling  snare  temptation  spreads, 

Then  dig  a  pit  for  other  sou's. 

They  license  wrong  and  then  forget 

That  those  who  give  and  who  receive, 

And  they  who  use  the  silver,  all 

Are  partners  in  this  game  of  death. 

They  keep  the  fountain  springs  of  life 

Impure,  unguarded,  rank  and  thick 

With  vile,  inherited  disease 

Of  body  and  of  spirit ;  then, 

When  causes  have  produced  results, 

They  crush  the  fruit  themselves  brought  forth. 

O  Justice  !  teach  us  to  be  just ! 

To  seek  preventive  for  redeeming  grace: 

Teach  us  to  need  no  ransoming  blood; 

Show  us  that,  Judas-like,  we  sell 

The  lives  of  others  for  a  price; 

That  they  who  cause  another's  sin 

Are  guilty  of  that  sin  themselves; 

That  no  atonement  wipes  it  out, 

But  leaves  a  stain,  a  scar  behind, 

And  that  not  only  by  our  deeds, 

But  by  our  motives  we  are  judged. 


THE    END. 


The  End. 


'At  the  last  it  biteth  like  a  serpent,  and  stingeth  like  an  adder. 
Only  an  empty  bottle, 
Only  an  old  brown  jug; 
Near  them,  a  brimless  hat-crown, 
A  pipe,  and  a  broken  mug. 

Only  a  cheap  pine  coffin, 
Borne  to  the  Potter's  Field- 
Never  a  mourner  followed, 
Never  an  organ  pealed. 

Only  the  rain's  low  sobbing, 
Only  the  wind's  sad  moan, 
Told  to  the  passing  stranger 
The  drunkard  had  died  alone. 

Once  there  were  friends  around  hin; 
Once  he  had  hope  and  health; 
Once  was  his  manner  fearless; 
Once  he  had  life's  best  wealth. 

Now,  have  his  trembling  footsteps 
Ceased  in  their  shuffling  round; 
Now  has  his  earth-life  ended, 

There,  at  that  lonely  mound. 

t 

"What  brought  about  the  beginning?" 
"Who  is  to  blame  for  the  end  ?" 
Only  the  tempting  bottle, 
Only  the  Judas  friend 

Now,  is  that  Judas  resting 
Softly  in  cushioned   ease 
That,  out  of  all  life's  riches, 
Left  to  the  drunkard  these — 

Only  an  empty  bottle, 
Only  an  old  brown  jug; 
Near  them  a  brimless  hat-crown, 
A  pipe  and  a  broken  mug. 


MESSAGES    I  MOM    THE     V  ATOH    TOWER. 


My  Turn  to  Treat. 


"My  turn  to  treat,"  the  dealer  said, 
"Come,  bashfulness  seems  out  of  place, 
On  this,  our  nation's  birthday,  too, 
In  veterans  who  wore  the  blue; 
Who  met  all  dangers  face  to  face; 
Who  never  feared  a  shot  or  glass. 
Nor  turned  aside  to  let  them  pass." 

One  fiery  son  of  Erin  moved, 
Drew  back  as  if  he  had  not  heard, 
Then  gazed  far  down  the  dusty  street, 
Where  waving  grainfields  seemed  to  meet, 
Clasp  hands  and  sigh  without  a  word. 
"Come,"  jeered  the  crowd,  "come,  Larry,  b'y, 
The  powther  makes  us  shmokin'  dhry." 

At  length  he  spoke,  and  through  his  words 

A  plaintive  little  quiver  crept : 

"It's  hard  to  let  the  crather  be 

That  locks  out  trouble,  hides  the  key, 

And  tells  him  we  have  only  shtept 

Outside  the  door  of  Hiven's  hall, 

To  tell  St  Father  whin  to  call." 

He  pulled  his  old  worn  coat  aside, 
And  from  its  inner  depths  brought  up 
The  picture  of  a  merry  girl 
With  coal-black  eyes  and  glossy  curls. 
"  'Twas  Mary— Say.'  what's  in  that  clip? 
I'll  take  a  dhrop,  and  yet  I  mind 
'Twas  this  that  made  me  eyes  so  blind. 


MY    TURN    TO    TREAT. 


"I  thought  no  harrm  to  take  a  drink 
Jist  whin  it  plased  me,  or  a  frind 
Brought  out  a  jug  to  warrm  the  could: 
I  niver  thought  the  girl  grew  ould 
With  frettin',  or  that  she  would  spind 
The  evenings  whin  I  wint  away 
Upon  her  knees  to  sob  and  pray. 

"I  didn't  think  she'd  mind,  but,  b'ys, 

One  'Fourth'  she  begged  me  shtay  with  her 

She  filt  'so  lonesome  like, '  she  said. 

But  I  had  whiskey  in  me  head, 

And  was  as  snappish  as  a  cur; 

For  Ned  stood  by  so  smilin'  like, 

I  knew  what  he  would  say  to  Mike. 

"(He  once  was  swate  on  her,  ye  see, 
But  Mary  threw  the  spalpeen  by,) 
And  so  I  tould  her  hould  her  jaw; 
I  was  the  one  to  sphake  the  law. 
But  thin  she  shtarted  in  to  cry. 
No  matter  what  I  did,  I  say — 
Min  shlap  their  Marys  ivery  day. 

' '  Give  me  a  dhrink,  and  curse  yer  sowl! 
Ye're  like  the  Divil,  now,  me  b'y. 
The  Divil  wance  was  shnake,  ye  know; 
Jist  see  the  ugly  spalpeen  go 
Out  on  your  arm  and  hand!  he's  dhry, 

"Give  him  a  dhrop  and  toast  his  health! 
Whin  ould  St.  Pathrick  drove  thim  out 
He  lift  their  ghosts  behind  to  wink 
And  shtrike  at  us  beyant  the  dhrink — 
Begorra!  but  he's  big  and  shtout! 
'My  Mary  ? '    Whisht!  I  say  she's  dead, 
She  and  the  baby  on  one  bed. 


MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH     TOWER. 


"I  didn't  kill  her — 'twas  the  dhrink — 
Take  it  away! — no,  hide  it  there — 
Be  quick  !  there  comes  me  little  girl, 
With  Mary's  eyes  and  Mary's  curls. 
(Oh,  blissid  saints  !  will  no  one  dare 
To  sind  her  where  her  mother  wint?) 
Whisht  now !  no  mather  what  I  meant. 

'She  walks  as  I  did  on  the  night, 
Tin  years  ago,  you  called  me  in, 
(The  Divil  take  yer  sowl  for  that, 
Though  'twouldn't  make  him  over  fat 
Afther  'twas  physicetl  of  its  sin,) 
And  made  me  roarin'  dhrunk  for  fun, 
And  then  showed  Mary  what  you'd  done." 

A  silence  fell  upon  the  group 
As  Maggie's  eyes  sought  each  lace  there. 
"Yis,  darlint,  yis,  (hie)  I'm  sober,  see  ? 
Now,  shtand  up  straight,  and  walk  like  me. 
We  (hie)  '11  go  up  shtreet  to  take  the  air." 
They  staggered  out — like  him!  too  like, 
The  drunkard  and  his  sin-marked  child. 


SALE    OF    INDULGENCES    OR    LIQUOR    LICENSE. 

Sale  of  Indulgences. 

OR 

Liquor   License, 


Who'll  buy?     Who'll  buy? 

The  price  runs  high — 
The  panting,  sluggish,  sickening  breath, 
Of  that  huge,  sensual  beast  of  death, 
Which  bloats  and  fattens  on  the  stolen  strength 
It  draws  from  shrinking  veins  until,  at  length 
It  festers,  by  its  own  hot  vileness  fired— 
This  leering  demon,  self  inspired, 

Takes  up  the  cry, 

"Who'll  buy?    Who'll  buy  ?" 
Its  hydra  heads  are  masked  and  hid 
Behind  the  opened  coffin  lid 
Where  bloodless  bodies  lie  within, 
The  victims  of  that  sale  of  sin. 

Who'll  buy?     Who'll  buy? 

The  price  runs  high, 
For  wants  are  pressing,  need  is  great; 
Our  chosen  council  for  the  state 
Has  pledged  the  gold  that  we,  in  turn,  must  pay. 
Though  hosts  of  shining  angels  bar  the  way. 
We  sell  the  devilish  trade  that  thrives 
On  all  the  filth  in  human  lives, 

Makes  Christians  cry, 

"Who'll  buy?    Who'll  buy?" 
Seeks  Vice  for  Virtue,  laughs  at  Shame, 
Leaves  naught  of  Freedom  but  its  name, 
Stabs  blinded  Justice,  strangles  Faith, 
Steals  even  Hope's  dim,  mocking  wraith, 
And  brings  the  first  and  second  death. 


12  MESSAGES   FROM  THE  WATCH   TOWER. 

Who'll  draw  the  line? 
Who  longs  to  sign? 
How  dare  we  judge  the  mitred  Pope, 
Who  sold  for  gold  salvation's  hope? 
The  soul  was  bidding  then  for  life,  not  death, 
While  we  would  poison  all  a  nation's  breath, 
And  sanction  this  unholy  trade, 
Seal  this  unrighteous  law  that  Greed  has  made. 
Fling  back  the  screen 
That  stands  between 
The  open  and  the  hidden  ways! 
Expose  that  game  that  Satan  plays  ! 
Strip  off  his  masks,  make  dimness  plain, 
And  with  the  blood-red  mark  of  Cain 
Brand  him  who  buys, 
And  him  who  cries, 
"Who'll  buy!     Who'll  buy!" 


THE    SENTENCE.  13 


The   Sentence. 

A  glimpse  into  a  court-room.       "Thou  shall  not  kill." 


"Hanged  by  the  neck  until  ye  be  dead — 
Life  is  God's  gift,  so  murderers  must  die — 
'Eye  for  an  eye'  and  'tooth  for  a  tooth' — 
God  grant  the  mercy  we  must  deny." 

They,  from  their  safe,  high  place  in  the  State, 
Gather  the  proofs  and  follow  each  thread 
Spun  from  the  mass,  then  judge  and  condemn — 
"Hanged  shall  ye  be  until  ye  be  dead." 

Gaze  on  the  culprit  shivering  there  ! 
"Heavy-necked  son  of  passionate  life?" 
No,  that  is  the  law  embodied  in  flesh  ; 
Here  crouches  murder  beside  this  young  wife. 

See  how  her  dark,  wild  eyes  read  each  face! 
Eyes  that  looked  first  on  Italy's  skies — 
Mark  how  she  clasps  and  wrenches  her  hands 
When,  in  a  pause,  her  babe  feebly  cries! 

"Murdered  its  lather?"     Yes,  so  they  say; 
But,  when  the  truth  creeps  forth  to  the  light, 
Justice  may  judge  the  deeds  of  the  law- 
May,  when  the  strength  returns  *o  her  sight, 

Brand  as  the  culprit  him  that  lies  dead. 
Worse  than  the  quick,  sharp  stroke  that  can  kill, 
Crueler  far,  is  the  torture  that  steals 
Light  from  the  eyes  and  life  from  the  will. 


14  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER. 

Who  will  protect  that  suffering  babe  ? — 
Cursed  by  its  father  in  every  breath — 
And  when  it  calls  for  its  mother,  what  tongue 
Cares  to  respond,  "  we  choked  her  to  death  ?  " 

Glorious  sign  of  progress  'twill  be! 
Wonderful  things  we  build  to  revere  ! 
There  is  a  cross  all  mossy  with  age, 
Scaffolds  with  dangling  halters  stand  here. 

Scarcely  are  fit  for  us,  so  men  say, 
Courts  and  the  jails,  the  caucus  and  polls, 
And  in  a  term  as  juror  or  judge 
Lurks  a  fierce  harm  to  our  sensitive  souls. 

Yet,  when  they  choose,  they  try  and  condemn- 
Try  by  the  laws  they  make  and  approve; 
Weigh  by  their  scales  and  mark  by  their  line, 
Womanhood's  weakness  and  guilt  to  remove. 

What  can  she  say  why  sentence  of  death 
May  not  be  passed  as  lawful  and  right  ? 
God  seems  asleep,  his  messengers  dead  ! 
Call,  and  this  echo  comes  back  from  the  night : 

"Hanged  by  the  neck  until  ye  be  dead." 
Shades  of  the  past,  arouse  from  your  tomb ! 
Point  with  your  spectral  hand  to  the  graves 
Filled  by  man's  violence,  shrouded  in  gloom  ! 

Tell  him  that  Vengeance  bringeth  forth  Fear; 
That  in  its  turn  brings  Vengeance  again, 
Crowding  back  Love  and  Faith  from  the  world, 
Torturing  Hope  by  wearisome  pain ! 


THE    SENTENCE.  15 


Tell  him  that  (ias  we  forgive,"  runs  the  prayer, 
"  May  we  receive  forgiveness  for  sin;" 
And,  that  the  cup  he  measures  in  wrath 
May  be  returned  o'erflowing  again! 

Shame  on  the  people  that  murder  by  law! 
Shame  on  a  law  that  strikes  at  a  slave! 
Shame  on  religion  that  sanctions  the  wrong j 
Shame  on  an  age  that  cares  not  to  save ! 

Eyes  that  can  see  and  ears  that  can  hear, 
Read  the  glad  words  on  eternity's  scroll, 
Hear  the  grand  chant  of  forgiveness  and  peace, 
That  through  eternity's  ages  shall  roll. 


1 6  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER. 

Her  Defense . 


"Neither  do  I  condemn  thee.     Go  and  sin  no  more." 

Sirs,  I  amwh&t  you  call  me,  "a  girl  of  the  town." 
Yes,  a  girl,  though  you  sneer  at  my  use  ol  the  word. 
I'm  degraded  and  vile,  sure  contagion  and  death; 
Doubt,  despair,  and  slow  mockery  lurk  in  the  breath 
Of  the  demon  that  holds  me  where  never  is  heard 
One  faint  whisper  of  home  or  of  womanhood's  crown — 
The  bright  halo  around  the  young  mother's  bowed  head. 

Though  I  am  what  you  call  me,  "a  girl  of  the  town," 
Who  or  what  forms  the  town,  that  indefinite  thing  ? 
Is  it  woman's  own  voice  that  demands  the  supply 
Of  the  thousands  on  thousands  of  such  ones  as  I  ? 
And  whose  vileness  pollutes  me  ?  what  venom  can  sting 
Like  the  poison  man  deals  with  a  smile  or  a  frown  ? 
Did  you  know,  you  who  play  with  the  laws  of  the  land, 
That  I  marked  the  bright  gold  which  you  laid  in  my  hand? 

Do  the  eyes  of  your  wife  ever  question  your  course  ? 
And  sometimes  when  the  Press  sports  a  virtuous  tone, 
,And  proclaims  deadly  war  on  the  victims  of  sin, 
Do  you  teach  your  young  daughters  how  'tis  that  we  win 
Sure  protection  for  them  at  the  price  of  our  own  ? 
As  you're  Christians,  pray  try  the  good  rule  Jesus  gave, 
Why  not  give  your  own  girls  some  one's  daughter  to  save  f 

Does  a  woman  go  wrong  by  herself?  I  would  ask. 
Are  you  sure  it  is  wrong  ?  We  are  needed,  you  say; 
And  I  many  times  question  what  life  is  the  best, 
Since  the  faster  we  live  it  the  sooner  we  rest. 
We  deny  not  our  sin  and  we  gather  our  pay, 
But  you'll  find  it  a  more  than  Herculean  task 
To  make  clean  the  foul  sinks  of  society  life, 
Or  to  sanctify  vileness  by  naming  it  wife. 


HER    DEFENSE.  17 


I  am  proof  of  my  words,  for  this  unresting  fire 
Was  a  curse  from  my  parents,  bequeathed  before  birth; 
Bring  your  daughters  and  wives,  let  them  see,  let  them  hear, 
Let  them  think,  and  then  judge.     Am  I  tried  by  my  peers  ? 
Ye  wise  men  of  the  law,  self-styled  lords  of  the  earth, 
There's  a  time  surely  coming,  each  moment  draws  nigher, 
When  our  sins  and  their  motives  will  come  to  the  light. 
Perhaps  yours  may  grow  dark  to  the  clarified  sight, 
When  the  measure  ye  mete  shall  be  given  ye  again. 

And  it  might  be  that  ours  have  been  canceled  by  pain, 

For  the  flesh  still  is  weak  though  the  spirit  endures. 

Ye  may  torture  the  body,  the  soul  is  not  yours, 

And  despises  your  judgments,  your  solemn  deceit — 

Forms,  pretentions  but  frail,  like  the  God  with  clay  feet. 

Set  the  hounds  on  my  track,  you  will  watch  where  I  hide  ; 

Whether  sooner  or  later,  will  come  to  my  side, 

And  it  maybe,  in  time,  and  through  sorrow,  will  learn 

That  together  the  price  of  redemption  we  earn, 

That  together  we  rise,  or  together  we  fall, 

And  the  honor  of  each  is  the  safety  of  all. 


1 8  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER. 

Sunday  Legislation— or  Not? 

"The  Sabbath  was  made  for  man,  not  man  for  the  Sabbath." 

No!  strive  no  more  to  bring  from  ancient  days 
What  feelings,  motives  or  what  laws  were  theirs, 
They  will  not  fit  our  ways,  our  minds,  our  times — 
All  these  have  changed,  and  like  their  change'too  well. 


We  decorate  ourselves  with  cross  and  chain, 
And,  when  a  passing  stranger  labels  them 
The  signs  of  pain  and  bondage,  we  but  smile! 
Yet,  let  the  lighter  hand  of  cunning  spite 
But  lay  its  finger-tip  upon  our  heads 
And  try  to  clasp  the  collar  round  our  necks, 
Or  let  the  iron  jaws  of  law  but  close 
Unwontedly,  the  added  weight,  the  press, 
Becomes  at  once  too  grievous  to  be  borne, 
So  much  we  love  our  own  free  life  and  will. 


Draft  laws,  frame  statutes — they're  but  forms; 
The  Spirit  of  the  Age  glides  ever  on, 
And  gives  small  heed  to  petty  things  likes  these. 
It  leaves,  upon  its  old,  forsaken  track, 
Some  line  upon  a  stone,  some  solemn  word, 
Like  ancient  Mede  and  Persian  law  for  strength, 
And  only  laughs  when  trembling  fingers  point 
To  where,  unheeded  in  the  dust,  it  lies. 
At  times  it  toys  in  wanton,  mocking  mood, 
With  codes  and  tables,  like  a  child  at  play, 
Turns  this  for  that,  proclaims  the  last  as  first, 
And  daringly  does  wrong  so  harm  may  come, 
To  test  the  anger  of  the  Unseen  Powers. 


SUNDAY    LEGISLATION OR    NOT?  19 

So  people  are  both  worse  and  better  than  their  laws — 
Those  yielding  gloves  that  shrink  to  any  hand, 
Quite  useless  if  the  strong,  the  living  flesh 
Fills  not  its  parts,  and  quickly  thrown  aside 
If  but  their  tissues  bind  or  mar  the  work. 

Yet  iose  not  faith  in  final  human  good. 

The  world  grows  surely  better  day  by  day, 

Through  ever  seeking  for  the  hidden  truth, 

Through  questioning  in  doubt  and  pain. 

If  all  the  nations  be  as  one,  some  day, 

In  time  and  measure,  speech  and  thought  and  hope, 

In  faith  and  in  baptism,  why  should  we 

Mark  all  the  rest  by  our  one  little  line? 

What  matters  it  which  few  and  fleeting  hours 

Are  set  apart  for  worship,  or  what  name 

We  give  to  their  or  our  one  day  of  rest  ? 

Let  each  keep  friendly  with  his  conscience  still, 

And  bind  no  yoke  upon  his  neighbor's  soul 

When  Nature  sounds  a  protest,  for  if  God 

Speaks  not  through  living  things  he  would  not  mark 

The  thrilling  essense  of  the  universe 

On  tiny  blocks  of  transient,  crumbling  stone. 


2O  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER. 


A  Fireside  Dream. 


Written  in  1889,  when  arguments  for   and  against    the    union    of  Church    and 
State  (or  Religious  Legslation)  were  agitating  many  minds. 

The  week  of  toil  had  worn  away, 
.  And  o'er  the  ocean  and  the  land 

The  evening  came  with  peaceful  rest; 

I  mused  before  the  open  fire 

With  dreamy  brain  and  idle  hand; 

The  days,  the  years,  o'erfull  were  pressed 

With  anxious  care,  yet  clearer,  higher, 
The  flames  shot  forth  and  held  me  there 

With  golden  heavens  and  lurid  hells, 

('T was  strange  how  close,  how  like  they  seemed 

By  just  a  shade  of  color  told, 

By  violence  or  calm  defined!) 

And  these  like  joyous  sunlight  gleamed, 

Like  harps  and  crowns  and  streets  of  gold; 

Those,  dark  with  horrors,  glowed  behind, 
With  hissing  jets  and  forked  tongues. 

Then  battles  raged,  and  lightnings  flashed, 

And,  when  they  ceased,  a  city  rose 

In  sheltered  peace,  behind  the  whole, 

With  walls  and  bridges,  and  on  high, 

Just  where  the  folded  flames  unclose, 

And,  singly  seek  their  destined  goal, 

Through  darkness  to  the  upper  sky, 
A  wondrous  structure  reared  itself, 

With  dome,  and  spire,  and  minaret, 

And  stately  wings  of  sober  gray. 

It  grew,  and  fell,  and  grew  once  more, 

With  cumbrous  walls  of  varying  strength, 

And  though  the  wide  foundations  lay 

At  equal  depth,  still  as  before 

The  rising  sections  fell  at  length, 
Upheld,  repelled  each  other's  wreck, 


A    FIRESIDE    DREAM. 


(As  if  in  anger  that  they  came 
From  common  flame  and  common  breath,) 
And  showed  the  yawning,  hollow  heart, 
Where  each  with  jealous  pride  drew  back, 
And  set  again  that  trap  of  death ; 
Yet  knew  not  each  had  wrought  its  part, 
Was  sharer  in  the  common  lack 

Of  clasping  union  in  the  heart. 

Then  voices  called  for  iron  strands, 
To  bind  the  towers  round  about — 
''For  me  and  mine,"  each  builder  said, 
And  as  the  girdle  strained  and  bent, 
The  added  pressure  from  without 
Brought  quicker  ruin  on  his  head; 
Yet  still  he  knew  not  what  was  meant, 

Read  not  the  lesson  of  the  past. 

Then  spoke  the  solemn  voice  of  Time: 
"Ye  bind  the  form— the  soul  has  fled— 
The  crumbling  temple  of  the  past 
Is  now  an  empty  tomb — too  late 
Ye  seek  the  living  with  the  dead. 
Ye  cannot  bind  the  spirit  fast, 
Nor  save  the  Church  by  hoops  of  State; 

This  clasping  with  unyielding  bonds 

Is  needless  when  the  heart  is  sound, 
Is  useless  when  'tis  full  and  strong; 
Nay,  worse  than  useless,  for  they  fall 
In  melting  fragments  on  the  wrecks 
Creative  fire  has  tried,  where  wrong 
Spreads,  shade  by  shade,  its  funeral  pall, 
And  temples  shrivel  into  specks, 

For  life  is  greater  than  its  forms." 


22  A    FIRESIDE    DREAM. 

Then  silence  seemed  to  follow  sound, 
And  fill  itself  with  mystic  forms, 
With  strange,  wierd  fancies;  shadows  grew, 
And  fled  in  fearful,  ghostly  play, 
As  when  the  gathering  summer  storms 
Send  silent  guards,  as  if  to  view 
Earth's  treasures  ere  they're  were  swept  away, 
Then  draw  them  back  and,  in  the  hush, 

The  raging,  swift  destruction  comes. 

The  hollow  echoes  of  the  vaults 
Gave  back  the  ancient  edicts  then, 
Till  dome  and  spire  and  minaret 
Returned  the  words  and  seemed  to  shout, 
"Proclaim  the  banns  of  Church  and  State." 

A  surging  concourse  rilled  the  space, 
And  noted  not  the  trembling  towers; 
Each  faction  strove  to  lead  the  whole 
And  shape  that  union's  wedding  rites. 
As  struggle  good  and  evil  powers, 
So  struggled  these;  as  oceans  roll, 
So  rolled  and  leaped  to  greet  the  heights 
These  warring  discords,  wave  on  wave, 
Till,  shuddering,  I  seemed  to  rise 

High  o'er  the  battle's  smoke  and  blaze 

And  listen  from  above,  and  there 
Few  words  of  each  I  clearly  heard: 
These  formed  a  chain  like  finest  gold, 
With  each  bright  link  a  chiming  bell, 
And  all  the  breadth  of  air  was  stirred. 
As,  peal  on  peal,  the  music  rolled, 
A  promise  rounding  each  loud  swell, 

Of  hope,  of  freedom,  and  of  peace. 


MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER.  23 

It  surged  across  the  billowy  plain, 

It  gathered  up  the  ocean's  moan, 

It  echoed  from  the  mountain's  crest 

And  touched  with  joy  the  thunder's  knell; 

It  blessed  each  soul  that  mourned  alone 

And  sang  to  weary  ones  of  rest, 

A  promise  still  in  each  loud  swell 
Of  hope,  of  freedom  and  of  peace. 

Blind  eyes  were  opened  wide  to  see; 

The  mute  remained  no  longer  dumb ; 

For  o'er  and  o'er  the  message  rang — 

"  /  hereby  do  forbid  the  banns  ! 

Thus  from  themselves  the  fiat  comes 

And  mingles  with  the  song  they  sang 

Who  woke  the  shepherds  of  the  plain 
With  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  man  ! " 

****** 

The  fire  was  smouldering  on  the  hearth; 

The  church  was  coal,  its  priests  were  smoke; 

And  fitful  darkness  hid  the  whole  ; 

Yet  all  the  quivering  air  seemed  filled 

With  messages  the  conflict  spoke — 

With  strength  and  warmth  that  feed  the  soul — 

And  all  life's  croaking  cares  were  stilled. 
So  evening  passed  in  peaceful  rest. 


24  MESSAGES  FROM  THE  WATCH  TOWER. 

"The  Poor  Ye  Have  Always  With  You," 

WHY  ? 

''When  the  wicked  are  multiplied  transgression  increaseth." 

Why  nestles  this  sister  in  velvet, 
While  that  one  still  shivers  in  rags? 
Why  idles  this  brother  in  riches 
While  that  one  through  poverty  lags  ? 

If  stripped  of  their  rags  and  their  velvet, 
Where  then  would  the  difference  lie  ? 
In  word,  or  in  tone,  or  in  gesture, 
Or  even  the  light  of  the  eye  ? 

Lo,  these  are  but  masks,  are  but  garments, 
The  outward  expression  of  soul; 
The  spirit  that  lives,  thinks  and  suffers, 
A  part  of  the  infinite  whole 

That  works  though  'tis  hindered  and  baffled — 
Works  upward  through  ages  of  pain — 
Weaves  ever  anew  its  torn  garments, 
And  labors  anew  at  each  stain. 

What  withers  the  scarcely-made  venture , 
Or  blights  the  long  service  at  last, 
While  other  risks  sail  to  their  harbor 
And  wait  till  the  storm  has  gone  past  ? 

Do  elements  battle  against  us, 
Or  far-distant  stars  rule  our  course, 
Or  shall  we  yet  seek  for  the  causes 
In  some  nearer  fountain  of  source  ? 


'THE  POOR  YE  HAVE  ALWAYS  WITH  YOU."       25 

Still  back  of  the  form  lies  expression, 
And  back  of  expression  the  soul 
That  springs  to  its  work  as  the  lightning 
Will  answer  its  opposite  pole. 

O,  wondering  mothers  and  fathers  ! 
Creation  is  mirrored  in  you; 
Think,  study  and  learn  life's  great  problem 
And  then  to  your  knowledge  prove  true  ! 

Like  wide  open  books  are  the  children, 
Where  mothers  may  read,  if  they  will, 
The  records  of  long-secret  warfare, 
Or  trace  the   dear  words  "Peace,  be  still!" 

And  fathers  may  follow  their  weakness, 
Their  follies  and  crime  to  their  fruits, 
May  nourish  their  virtues  embodied 
Or  sigh  over  lives  fit  for  brutes. 

So  long  as  the  germ  holds  the  essence 
Of  tyrannous  scheming  for  gain, 
So  long  as  'tis  nourished  by  cravings 
For  wealth  beyond  power  to  obtain, 

Or  fed  upon  stolid  endurance 
With  flashes  of  vengeful  unrest, 
So  long  will  Dives  feast  to  his  sorrow 
And  Lazarus  linger  our  guest. 


26  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER. 

The  Earth  is  The  People's. 


"The  earth  is  the  Lord's  and  the  fullness  thereof," 
We  read  in  a  scripture  held  sacred  as  old — 
He  speaks  through  his  creatures  and  lives  in  their  life, 
So  earth  is  the  people's  to  have  and  to  hold. 

The  whole,  not  a  fraction,  the  whole,  not  a  part — 
For  who  hath  created  the  ocean  or  land  ? 
Who  fashioned  a  mountain,  or  hollowed  a  vale, 
Or  moulded  the  granite  by  turning  his  hand  ?  " 

Who  holds  a  clear  deed  that  the  powers  of  the  air 
Respect  in  the  course  of  their  out-rushing  breath? 
Whose  mortgage  holds  good  when  the  forces  beneath 
Arouse  in  the  rage  of  destruction  and  death  ? 

When,  ages  on  ages,  earth  silently  rolled, 
When,  atom  by  atom,  it  drew  to  its  place, 
What  title  to  land  was  embedded  in  stone  ? 
Whose  name  was  tattooed  on  its  stern  rugged  face  ? 

All  breath  is  but  vapor,  all  flesh  as  the  grass; 
It  droops  and  is  gone,  and  the  soul  can  retain 
But  essense,  but  spirit,  the  meaning  and  life 
Of  all  that  its  servant,  the  body,  may  gain. 

Then  wherefore  this  battle  for  houses  and  lands  ? 
Why  eagerly  grasp  what  another  may  need, 
Demanding  his  strength  or  his  life  for  your  gain, 
Demanding  a  harvest  yet  grudging  the  seed  ? 

Ye  heirs  to  the  kingdom  of  freedom,  of  peace, 
Oh,  sell  not  your  birthright  for  pottage,  for  dross  ? 
The  wages  of  greed  will  be  worthless  and  vain 
When  cast  in  the  balance  of  profit  and  loss. 


THE    EARTH    IS    THE    PEOPLE'S.  27 

How  long  will  the  children  of  Isaac  contend — 
The  crafty,  the  favored,  the  Jacobs  of  earth — 
With  sad,  angry  Esaus  tpo  weary  .to  prize 

ifvLA.  ^  /'frvt-C'V. 

The  glorious  heritageim;  by  his  birth  ? 

How  often  will  innocence  yield  unto  craft  ? 
How  often  the  husbandman,  Abel,  be  slain 
By  slaughtering  brothers  all  fevered  with  rage, 
By  cursed,  and  despairing,  and  wandering  Cain  ? 

"  The  shroud  hath  no  pockets"  has  often  been  said, 
Yet  man  in  his  eagerness,  calls  from  the  grave, 
'"Tis  mine  and  my  children's  forever  and  aye," 
Then  sinks  out  of  sight  in  eternity's  wave. 

O  Cain  !  still  thy  brother's  blood  calls  from  the  ground; 
His  keeper  thou  wast,  with  his  weakness  thy  guilt. 
The  earth  is  the  people's,  yet  cities  of  gold, 
To  cover  the  marks  of  thy  crime,  thou  hast  built. 


28  MESSAGES    FROM   THE    WATCH    TOWER. 

"In  Union  there  is  Strength," 

All  the  upper  air  is  thrilling 

With  a  prophecy  of  change. 
All  the  lower  air  responding 

Throbs  with  something  new  and  strange. 
Read  ye  not  the  wall's  handwriting  ? 

Hear  ye  not  the  breakers'  roar  ? 
Feel  ye  not  the  spirit's  warning 

Of  a  danger  just  before  ? 
Seek  the  soul's  most  secret  chamber; 

Cleanse  each  treasured  relic  there, 
For  the  herald  of  the  future 

Mounts  the  darkened,  winding  stair, 
Loudly  calls  for  proof  of  service 

In  the  line  of  human  needs, 
Brings  the  scale  to  measure  motives, 

Balance  promises  and  deeds, 
And,  with  shining  keys  of  knowledge 

Bound  to  twining  cords  of  faith, 
Brings  creative  fire  from  Heaven, 

Lights  the  pathway  over  death, 
Shows  electric  bands  enfolding 

All  as  one,  both  near  and  far, 
Shows  the  brotherhood  existing 

'Twixt  the  satellite  and  star. 
Then  shall  man  forget  that  union 

Bringeth  life — disunion,  death? 
Would  he  fill  his  clay  creations 

With  the  spirit's  quickning  breath, 
Then  must  he,  by  combination, 

Learn  the  way  to  peace  at  length ; 
For  the  lesson  of  the  ages 

Is,  "  In  union  there  is  strength." 


MANY    STORIES    IN    ONE.  29 


Many  Stories  in  One, 


"  Escaped  !     Escaped  !  "     the  cry  went  forth, 
Then  women  shuddered  and  grew  pale, 

While  children  glanced,  awe  struck  and  still, 
Back  toward  what  looked  so  like  a  jail. 

Men  left  their  work  and  talked  in  groups, 
Self-made  police  paced  out  their  beat; 

The  town  rose  up  to  scent  the  track 
Of  one  crazed  woman's  wandering  feet. 

The  days  passed  on,  and  word  was  brought 
Of  something  floating  in  the  bay, 

An  unknown  body  at  the  morgue 
And,  what  is  strange,  the  papers  say, 

They  found  upon  her,  roll  on  roll 

Of  paper,  brown  and  soiled  and  torn, 
All  written  o'er  They  read  the  lines, 
Then  laid  the  bit  of  pencil,  worn 

With  picturing  that  life  of  woe, 
Within  the  lifeless  hand,  but  saved 

The  story  it  had  told  so  well, 
They  wondered  not  at  what  she  braved. 

Read,  you  who  live  in  light  and  warmth, 
In  happy  love  and  hopeful  dreams, 

And  learn  that  not  to  all  is  life 
The  unmixed  blessing  that  it  seems. 


"  No  more  sorrows,  aches  nor  pains  !  " 
I  read  and  closed  my  eyes  in  thought. 

A  vision  grew  from  out  the  past 

And  meaning  from  the  present,  caught. 


30  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER. 

Between  the  cities  by  the  bay 
Well-locked  within  the  Golden  Gate 

Which  marks,  with  fort  and  echoing  gun, 
The  sunken  bar,  the  hidden  fate, 

The  ferry  steamers  met  and  passed; 

The  rustling  throng,  in  groups  and  crowds  ' 
Or  lonely  watches,  filled  the  decks, 

While  overhead  light,  drifting  clouds 

But  made  more  blue  the  summer  sky; 

Life  seemed  an  oft-repeated  stiain 
Of  melody,  till,  in  a  pause, 

A  discord  brought  a  thrill  of  pain. 

The  tone  grew  loud,  then  died  away 
In  shivering  echoes,  that  the  few, 

Of  all  those  hundreds,  kept  or  heard — 
(For  grief  is  old  but  joy  is  new.) 

Half  hidden  from  the  light  of  day, 
For  fear  of  saddening  youth  and  health, 

Down  where  the  din  might  dull  the  sounds, 
For  fear  of  vexing  silken  wealth. 

A  mounted  cage  with  guarded  door 
Held,  not  wild  beasts,  but  fellow  men ; 

And  ever  as  the  discord  swelled, 
A  woman's  eyes  glared  from  this  den. 

A  woman's  fingers  grasped  the  bars, 

A  woman's  voice  flung  out  the  words 
That  after-years  brought  from  the  waves 

Wild  as  the  cry  of  wild  sea  birds. 
"O,  no  more  sorrows,  aches  nor  pain!" 

Again  and  yet  again  it  came, 
As  now,  upon  the  crumpled  page, 

Line  after  line  read  still  the  same. 


MANY    STORIES    IN    ONE.  31 

Poor,  weary  soul!  perchance  she  caught 

A  glimpse  of  rainbow  in  the  rain, 
A  prophecy,  but  now  fulfilled, 

Of  life  without  the  grief  and  pain. 

Come  read  the  lines  with  me  and  feel 

The  long,  slow  agony  of  years, 
The  dying  hopes,  the  self  reproach, 

The  dull,  hard  grief  too  dry  for  tears. 


"You  wish  that  my  love  was  outspoken 
As  it  was  in  the  days  that  are  past, 

And  ask  why  the  old  time  devotion 
To  the  end  of  my  life  could  not  last. 

"And  yet,  if  I  tell,  you'll  be  angry, 
Just  as  if  I  had  meant  to  offend. 

If  only  you'd  question  me  kindly, 
And  would  patiently  hear  to  the  end, 

"I'd  remind  you  of  how  in  my  girlhood 
I  was  dreamy  and  quiet  and  shy; 

'So  innocent'  ever  you  called  me — 
I  could  be  your  'good  angel,'  and  I, 

"So  useless  aforetime  I  fancied, 
Was  rejoiced  to  be  shown  my  life  work, 

And  gladly  I  knelt  for  my  burden, 
Throwing  back  all  the  fears  that  will  lurk 

"Within  the  weak  heart  of  the  timid; 

For  my  faith  in  your  love  was  so   strong 
I  thought  that  with  me  for  your  helper, 

You  would  nevermor  a;  5  re  to  go  wrong. 


32  MESSAGES    FROM    THE     WATCH    TOWER. 

"I  thought  you  could  see  that  the  right  way 
Was  the  one  that  looked  right  unto  me: 

Though  narrow  the  pathway  we  traveled 
That  we  closer  together  should  be. 

"Before  you  reproach  for  my  coldness, 
To  the  innermost  depths  ol  your  soul 

Look  down — Is  it  swept  there  and  garnished? 
From  the  tomb  of  our  youth  let  us  roll 

"The  stone,  while  we  tearfully  enter, 

In  a  search  for  the  Lord  who  has  died. 

'Not  here  with  the  dead — he  has  risen.' 
Let  us  look  at  his  shroud  side  by  side. 

"Of  thoughts,  words  and  acts  it  is  woven; 

Every  hour,  as  it  silently  sped, 
As  silently  broadened  this  garment 

Till  it  furnished  a  robe  for  the  dead. 

"See  you  any  promises  broken? 

And  which  side  has  the  most,  yours  or  mine? 
Read  yon  that  it  might  have  been  better 

Had  you  heeded  those  prayers  of  mine? 

"When,  long  years  ago,  I  besought  you 
To  abstain  from  the  maddening  drink, 

"Respect  before  love"  said  my  nature, 
And  you'll  drive  it  away  if  you  drink." 

"And  our  boys — shall  I  teach  them  their  father 
Has  a  right  to  do  that  which  for  them 

Is  urong?    Shall  the  cheeks  of  your  daughter 
For  your  fault  e'er  be  reddened  with  shame  ? 


MANY    STORIES    IN    ONE.  33 

"Read  on;  does  it  say  my  petitions 

Were  so   lovingly  granted,  my  years 
Have  passed  like  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving 
And  my  eyes  been  unclouded  by  tears? 

"A  horrible  dread  ever  present, 

Hints  of  darkness,  despair  and  of  death, 
The  ruin  of  home  and  of  children — 

All  the  woes  held  in  alcohol's  breath. 

"That  hideous  black  thing  in  the  cupboard, 
Running  over  with  slow  writhing  snakes 

That  were  nourished  on  curses  and  groanings 
And  tears  wrung  from  bitter  heart-breaks, 

"Is  surely  a  thing  of  my  fancy, 

For  you  would  not  so  torture  my  heart. 
You  promised  to  love  and  to  cherish 

Forever,  till  death  did  us  part. 

"The  scales  may  have  dropped  from  your  eyelids, 

So  read  on  and  I'll  leave  you  alone. 
Perhaps  our  two  lives  may  grow  brighter 

When  the  Lord  shall  come  back  for  his  own." 

Again  read  on,  then  clasp  the  babe 

Whose  perfect  form  and  loving  ways 
Are  one  unending  joy,  and  think 

Of  that  poor  mother's  hopeless  days. 


"The  mark  of  Cain  was  on  the  child, 
Set  there  before  his  form  had  birth, 

The  mark  that  sent  him  from  his  kind 
A  hated  wanderer  o'er  the  earth. 


34  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER. 

Not  from  his  parents  did  he  take 
His  massive  neck  and  heavy  jaws, 

The  drooping  lip  and  bloodshot  eyes. 
Men  glibly  talk  of  nature's  laws 

As  if  they  knew  them  all,  and  yet 
The  fruit  will  mildew  on  the  vine, 

And  unexpected  sweetness  spring 
Where  thorny  brambles  loop  and  twine. 

"Long  since  a  murder  shocked  the  world 
So  unprovoked  it  seemed  no  voice 

Could  speak  excuse  or  urge  delay, 
• 
And  so  the  law  had  left  no  choice. 

"I,  who  had  been  that  murderer's  wife, — 
(I  married  when  scarce  more  than  child, 

And  thought  to  hold  this  headstrong  youth 
Who  only  chafed  and  grew  more  wild.) 

"I,  who  had  been  that  murderer's  wife, 
The  secret  of  my  youth  held  fast, 

Lest  it  should  curse  the  Eden  I'd  found, 
With  serpent-hissing  from  the  past. 

'Yet  still  the  specter  would  not  down, 

Each  tongue  described,  each  pen  portrayed 
The  features,  words  and  ways  of  him 
Who  dragged  me  through  life's  deepest  shade. 

"So,  when  my  child  was  born,  his  child 
Whose  love  had  brought  my  happiest  days — 

It  grew  that  other's  image,  then 
The  air  seemed  filled  with  thickning  haze. 


-^ 


MANY    STCRIFS    IN    ONE.  35 


in  that  clinging  mist, 
-^My  love,  my  joy,  my  hope,  was  lost. 
My  life's  web  knotted  —  and  in  vain 
J  try  to  get  the  threads  uncrossed." 


Nx  Comfort  was  poised  on  its  many  hued  wings, 

Awaiting  my  choice  for  its  stay  or  its  fight; 
Puty^rept  close  and  demanded  my  care, 
'•^VjlOwing  no  respite  by  day  or  by  night. 

\ 

"Choose!  Could  I  choose  while  stern  Conscience  stood  by 
And  gazed  at  the  past  when  the  seed  had  been  sown 

That,  unnoticed,  a  horrible  harvest  had  brought 
Which  now  I  must  gather  in  sorrow  alone  ? 

"Can  you  love  Duty,  you  steady  and  strong, 
Who  march  where  it  leads  you  ?nd  shrink  from  no  pain? 

0  I  did  try,  but  I  longed  to  go  back 
And  rest  in  the  shadow  of  Comfort  again. 

"Life  seemed  so  strange,  so  unequal  and  hard! 

'Twas  all  a  mistake;  'twas  no  sin;  why  should  I 
Suffer  sov^nuch  when  another  could  laugh 

An4\banter  with  Duty  while  Comfort  stood  by?" 


"So  you  think  I  am  sad  without  reason; 

That  I  foolishly  moan  and  cry; 
That  I  willfully  shadow  the  sunshine; 

That  for  pastime  I  sob  and  sigh  ? 
And  you  sometimes  will  carelessly  wonder 

Why  so  often  I  pray  to  die. 


36  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH      TOWER.* 

If  you'll  cease  your  gay  laughter  a  moment, 

And  will  listen,  I'll  tell  you  why: 
'Tis  because,  on  the  veil  of  the  future, 

Like  a  painting  that  hides  the  sky, 
I  see  shadows  of  coming  sorrow, 

Of  a  woe  that  is  drawing  nigh. 

"Careless  eyes  see  it  not,  and  the  vision 

Flashes  back  to  its  spectral  place, 
Where  all  things  are  as  dreams  scarce  remembered, 

Or  like  ghosts  of  a  haunting  face; 
Yet  I  feel,  as  each  sad  moment  lingers, 

As  the  hours  cling  to  life,  and  pace 
In  a  line,  like  dead  Joy's  sad  mourners, 

That  Trouble  will  win  the  race; 
That  no  power  can  destroy  the  wierd  picture, 

Or  the  depths  of  its  shades  erase; 
That  its  coming  fulfillment  is  certain 

As  the  darkness,  or  time,  or  space. 
So  reproach  me  not  now  for  my  sadness, 

Nor  the  course  of  my  blessings  trace, 

''For  the  weight  of  the  world  seems  upon  me — 

All  its  woes,  all  its  follies  and  sins — 
And  I  see  that  the  strong  rule  the  weaker, 

See  thai  might  is  called  right,  and  wins 
By  the  method  most  cunningly  watchful, 

That  devours ^r^a  brother  begins; 
That  will  live  on  the  breath  of  another; 

That  will  murder  and  call  it  law. 
'  Tis  the  creed  of  the  tyrant,  that  surely 

Will  be  tried  by  the  Heavenly  law; 
Then  what  heart  will  be  void  of  offences  ? 

And  whose  hands  will  be  be  clear  of  stain, 
When  we  stand  face  to  face  with  our  conscience 

And  the  secrets  of  life  grow  plain?" 


MANY    STORIES    IN    ONE  37 

If  only  my  daughter  knew 

How  her  mother's  heart  is  aching 

She  would  soon  forget  her  own  young  grief, 

For  the  woe  the  old  heart's  breaking; 

For 'twas  hers,  my  child,  before  'twas  yours  ! 

Your  sorrowful  hours  she,  too,  endures, 

But  she  dare  not  look  in  your  wistful  eyes, 

Though  every  glance  is  a  precious  prize; 

And  she  dares  not  answer  that  pleading  look, 

For  she  reads  it  all  like  an  open  book; 

And  the  sad  reproach  in  your  lingering  gaze 

But  returns  too  keenly  the  olden  days 

When  her  life  was  young  and  she  longed  in  vain 

For  a  dream  that  never  would  come  again 

When  she  woke  to  find  that  the  charm  of  the  ring 

Had  summoned  a  horrible,  brutish  thing. 

So  your  mute  appeals  for  love's  caress 

Stab  my  heart  again  with  the  smothering  pain. 

The  years  of  your  life  are  the  years  of  my  woe. 

And  'tis  part  of  my  penance  to  always  know 

I  cursed  the  child  I  had  hoped  to  bless. 

"  'Tis  a  hard,  hard  thing  when  a  mother  pleads 
For  her  own  child's  pardon  for  giving  it  life  ! 

And  I  love  you  so 

I  must  not  show 
That  I  care  to  have  you  near  me ; 

I  had  better  frown 

Than  drag  you  down 
To  the  depths  where  you  might  fear  me. 

And  you  must  not  care! 

O,  if  I  dare 
Fall  asleep  and  never  waken! 

If  I  only  knew 

I'd  soon  be  through 


38  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER. 

This  dreary  war  of  feeling  ! 

Will  there  come  no  change  ? 

Myself  seems  strange 
With  a  horror  past  revealing. 

Existence  worries,  wearies  me,  and  life, 

With  all  its  causes  and  effects,  seems  only  strife. 

Why  may  I  not  resign  it  all  and  rest? 

Why  do  they  tell  me  that  would  not  be  best  ? 

And  yet,  my  child,  your  pleading  eyes 

Look  up  to  mine  with  sad  surprise, 

And  yet  you  moan,  'If  only  mother  knew!' 

O,  who  will  give  me  strength  to  bear  and  do, 

So  that  my  precious  daughter  may  not  know 

Whether  the  wheels  of  life  run  fast  or  slow  ? 

It  would  grieve  her  so — 

Don't  let  her  know!" 


And  last  of  all  a  little'scrap 

All  blurred  and  blotted  as  by  tears — 
A  few  sad  words,  and  yet  they  told 

The  dreary  rmisery  of  years. 

You  say  the  blots  were  salt  sea  waves 
That  murmured  'round  her  where,  too  late, 

They  found  her  floating  with  the  tide 
Straight  toward  the  Golden  Gate. 

Well,  have  it  so — it  matters  not, 

But  watch  and  pray  and  work  to  save 

The  helpless  ones  from  lives  like  this, 
Or  grudge  them  not  the  rest  they  crave. 


MANY    STORIES    IN    ONE.  39 

'  It  was  terrible  out  in  the  darkness, 

Lying  unpitied,  alone, 
With  despair  crouching  somewhere  unspe  aking— 

The  air  filled  with  ghosts  of  a  moan. 

"  At  the  dawning  the  shadows  had  gathered 

And  crept  to  their  place  in  my  heart, 
Yet  again,  at  the  coming  of  midnight, 

In  ghostly  procession  to  start 

"And  o'er  lap  their  broad  wings  round  my  corner, 

Growing  darker  with  each  added  day — 
For  Faith  has  forgotten  to  whispe*, 

And  Hope  fled,  affrighted  away." 

*****  *  * 

Escaped  !  ah  yes,  escaped,  we  hope  ! 

It  cannot  be  that  "Over  There  " 
She  still  must  wrench  at  iron  bars, 

Again  gaze,  wild  eyed,  at  despair. 

So  close  the  eyes  and  fold  the  hands — 

The  sights  they  shrank  from  all  are  past, 
And  tender  spirit  hands  have  clasped 

Those  seeking  ones  in  love  at  last. 


40  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER. 

In  the  Whirlpool. 

I  saw,  within  a  stream,  a  whirling  eddy  caught 

Between  two  jagged  rocks  that  almost  met  ; 
It  raged,  and  foamed,  and  turned  upon  itself,  and  beat 

Against  the  deep-set  stones  with  ceaseless  fret. 
Exhausted  by  the  plunge,  it  sullenly  rolled  on 

In  heaving  waves,  yet  backward  threw  a  spray, 
Of  vengeance  or  forgiveness  born,  I  knew  not  which, 

Above  the  boulder  which  had  barred  its  way. 

And  ever  as  the  current  poured  from  fountain  springs 
And  started  on  its  long,  predestined  course, 

It  sought  the  fearful  pitfall  it  rebelled  against, 
Impelled  by  inner  and  by  outer  force. 

I  wondered  at  the  power,  unseen  but  not  unfelt, 
Which  holds  all  weaker  promptings  in  its  grasp  ; 

Which  draws  unto  itself  all  motion  and  all  life 
And  folds  it  in  a  still,  resistless  clasp, 

Soon  (changed,  not  lost,  its  grosser  garment  left  behind,) 
To  float,  upborne  by  that,  repelled  by  this, 

Where  finer  essences  and  rare,  etherial  forms 
Reach  forth,  absorb,  and  mingling,  bring  the  b  liss 

Of  wondrous,  resurrected  life  to  earth  again, 
Yet  never,  for  a  moment's  breath,  beyond 

Where  this  unspeaking,  uncrowned  power  must  be  obeyed 
Where  elements  could  break  or  choose  their  bond. 

•*##•*#•*  #•# 

I  saw,  within  the  stream  of  conscious  human  life, 
A  current  that  was  destined  from  its  source 

To  alway  seek  the  whirlpool,  beat  eternal  stone 
And  hurry  toward  the  leaps  that  bring  remorse, 


IN    THE    WHIRLPOOL.  4! 

And  sullen,  heaving  discontent,  regretful  pain, 

Which  melted  into  tears  and  almost  hid 
The  rage  and  depth  and  darkness  of  the  crouching  spring, 

And,  momently,  its  fateful  acts  undid. 

Yet  still  no  backward  glancing,  moans,  nor  tears,  nor  prayers, 
Could  turn  that  spirit  from  its  destined  course  ; 

It  sought,  then  whirled  about,  the  fatal  rocks 
With  dashing,  feverish,  or  dark  despairing  force. 

Again  I  wondered  at  the  mighty  unseen  power 

Which  held  the  current  to  its  fateful  track  ; 
Which  kept  the  hardened  rocks  within  its  eager  reach 

And  left  no  choice  between  the  fall  and  turning  back. 

Poor  craving  life,  consuming  self,  yet  unconsumed, 
Hold  fast  to  hope  !  The  law  that  seems  so  cruel  now 

Is  slowly  drawing  all  the  grosser  elements 
That  form  the  load  beneath  whose  weight  you  bow, 

And  still  will  draw  until  at  length  the  finer  part, 

The  soul,  with  its  eternal  powers,  will  rise 
By  this  same  law  to  kinship  with  angelic  forms, 

Above  the  whirlpool  and  the  cloudy  skies, 

Where  all  the  complex  plan  of  lite  grows  grandly  clear, 

And  in  the  calmness  of  creative  peace 
Dispersing  blessings  will  return  to  bless  again, 

All  maddening  leaps  be  past,  all  raging  cease. 


42  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER. 

The  Alkali  Plains  of  Life. 


There  are  lonely  spots  that  are  sometimes  found, 

As  humanity  flows  and  ebbs, 
That  would  seem  to  be  only  breaks  and  knots 
In  the  threads  of  creation's  web, 
Or  an  after-thought,  or  a  work  undone, 
Or  neglected  task  that  is  just  begun, 
So  dry  and  caustic,  silent  and  bare, 
With  not  a  song-note  stirring  the  air, 
As  though  accursed  for  the  "primal  pair." 

Not  a  fragrant,  tender  and  lovely  thing 
Struggles  forth  from  the  grudging  earth; 

But  the  coarse,  thorny  plants,  and  wild,  bitter  sage 
In  these  desolate  lands  have  birth: 
Yet  the  sage  draws  life  from  the  stinging  soil, 
And  the  bitter  drops  in  their  upward  toil 

Are  changed  to  healing  within  its  veins. 

When  bursting  springs  meet  the  pitying  rains, 

Some  day  the  earth  will  have  lost  it  sting, 

Some  day  a  golden  harvest  will  bring, 

Some  day  the  desert  with  life  shall  ring. 


There  are  lonely  souls  that  are  sometimes  found, 

As  humanity  flows  and  ebbs, 

That  would  seem  to  be  worse  than  breaks  and  knots 
In  the  threads  of  creation's  web; 
Worse  than  after  thoughts  of  a  work  undone 
Or  neglected  task  that  is  just  begun, 
So  dry  and  caustic,  silent  and  glum — 
To  all  good  things  they  seem  to  be  numb, 
To  all  that's  musical  deaf  and  dumb. 


THE    ALKALI    PLAINS    OF    LIFE.  43 

Yet  the  bitter  life  will  to  sweetness  turn 

In  a  time  that  is  drawing  near, 
When  the  long-pent  sorrows  have  burst  their  bonds 

And  are  mingled  with  pitying  tears 
From  the  eye  that  has  opened  to  brighter  light 
And  has  learned  to  read  nature's  Wessons  aright, 
That  the  bitter  cures  and  the  caustic  heals, 
And  the  dry,  fierce  heat  the  rare  vase  anneals. 
Some  time  these  souls  will  have  lost  their  sting, 
Some  time  a  golden  harvest  will  bring, 
Some  time  these  spirits  with  joy  shall  sing. 


44  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH    TOWER. 

To  Emilie  Morsier. 

[Who  in  behalf  of  the  women  of  France  proposed  an  International  Peace  Council 
to  be  composed  of  women.] 

Women  of  France,  our  Sister  Republic, 

Echo,  on  echo  your  call  shall  repeat 

Nation  to  nation  send  ringing  hosannas, 

And  angel  with  mortal  clasp  hands  in  their  joy 

Over  the  continents,  over  the  oceans 

Long  have  been  hanging  the  storm  clouds  of  war 

Lightnings,  thunders,  tornadoes  and  darkness 

Repeated  in  spirit  to  torture  anew. 

Long  have  the  few  been  devouring  the  many, 
Wasting  their  substance,  their  strength  and  their  lives; 
Claiming  divinely  appointed  commissions, 
They  strike  in  the  name  of  the  Preacher  of  Peace. 
Oft  has  trie  saber  been  pointed  and  sharpened, 
Oft  has  the  cannon  paid  tribute  to  death; 
Always  the  mother-heart  mourns  its  lost  treasures, 
Nursing  a  curse  that  returns  in  new  births. 

Now  the  Commander,  the  Spirit  of  Progress, 
Calls  fora  halt  in  the  fierce,  onward  rush; 
Swords  must  be  sheathed  and  the  war  drums  forgotten, 
Then  man  will  grow  gentle  and  woman  can  rest. 
Reveilles  sound,  and  the  hosts  are  awaking  ! 
Rank  upon  rank  of  brave  mothers  in  line 
Strengthen  the  arm  that  is  rocking  the  cradle 
With  blood  that  is  fresh  from  the  warm  heart  of  love- 
Love  that  would  shield  the  weak  ones  from  oppression, 
Love  that  refuses  to  bear  with  a  wrong. 
Man  waits  not  forever  when  woman  dares  venture — 
The  knight  fought  for  tokens,  the  brave  for  reward. 


TO    EMILIE    MORSIER.  45 


Woman,  wherever  you  live,  love  and  suffer, 
Bless  the  brave  heroes  that  stand  by  your  side; 
Heed  the  "  Appeal"  that  comes  over  the  waters, 
Till  war,  want  and  famine  are  banished  from  earth  ! 

Women  of  France,  our  Sister  Republic, 
Echo  on  echo  your  call  shall  repeat ! 
Nation  to  nation  send  ringing  hosannas, 
And  angel  with  mortal  clasp  hands  in  their  joy- 


46  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH     TOWER. 


44 


Be  Still, 


Calm  the  soul  to  list'ning  silence, 
For  the  Spirit  draweth  nigh  ! 

Hush  all  noisy,  warring  tumult 
Lest  it  sadly  passeth  by  ! 

In  the  still,  white  heat  of  feeling 
Lies  the  power  that  moveth  souls; 

For  they  listen  in  the  silence 
Where  eternal  spirit  rolls 

Through  the  measureless  expanses, 
Holds  each  atom  and  each  sun 

In  its  ever  onward  current 
'Round  the  conscious  life — the  One — 

Till  they  learn  angelic  anthems, 

Catch  the  echo  of  the  tone 
That  can  harmonize  all  discords, 

That  is  learned  by  each,  alone- 
Lone  and  silent,  yet  communing 

With  the  universal  soul; 
One,  yet  blending  in  that  oneness 

With  the  universal  whole. 


v  THE    ELECTRIC    RULE.  47 

The  Electric  Rule. 


Though  Saviors  have  lived  and  have  suffered  and  died, 
And  prophet  and  priest  have  gone  down  side  by  side, 
Their  mournful  eyes  asking  "Why  seek  ye  my  life 
For  teaching  and  living  the  gospel  of  peace," 
Still  the  struggle  goes  on,  still  the  spirit  of  force 
Forms  statutes  and  breaks  them  the  same  as  of  old; 
Still  the  voice  of  the  world  in  its  darkness  and  pain 
Cries  "Tear  down  the  damp  walls,  let  the  light  shine  again! 
We  are  cramped  and  deformed  in  our  bodies  and  minds, 
And  our  freedom  is  smothered  in  creeds  and  in  laws." 

The  Self-Seeking  Rule  and  the  pure  Golden  Rule 

Were  foes,  deadly  foes  from  the  first,  so  men  say; 

That  selfhood  must  yield  to  that  heavenly  law 

Ere  earth  can  awake  to  the  heavenly  day. 

So  the  righteous  have  toiled  from  the  ages  of  yore, 

They  have  urged,  they  have  forced  from  their  own  precious  store 

Rarest  treasures  of  faith,  priceless  visions  of  hope 

On  the  brain  and  the  soul  that  rebels  at  the  gift. 

"What  is  truth  unto  me  should  be  truth  unto  you," 

They  will  cry  in  the  haste  of  their  unselfish  zeal. 

Should  camel  and  lion  divide  their  scant  food, 

What  gain  would  there  be  to  the  general  good  ? 

The  carcass  would  lie  by  the  camel  unused, 

The  hay  would  best  serve  for  the  young  lion's  bed. 

The  swift  minnow  might  offer  its  home  to  the  bird, 

And  the  bird  might  entreat  of  the  minnow  to  share 

Its  light  swinging  nest  and  its  merriest   song, 

And  its  long,  southward  flight  through  the  clear,  upper  air, 

But  the  change  would  bring  death  to  the  generous  twain; 

What  was  meant  for  a  good  would  end  only  in  pain. 


48  MESSAGES    FROM    THE    WATCH  v  TOWER,- 

So  still  is  the  rule  but  the  measure  of  self 

On  a  higher  line,  and  the  wonder  will  come 

If  ever  the  consciousness  loses  itself — 

If  sometime  it  reaches  existence  so  great 

It  loses  the  marks  of  this  trial-filled  state — 

Can  forget  all  the  weakness,  outgrow  all  the  faults 

That  the  hard,  life-long  struggle  for  bread  now  exalts — 

Can  so  mingle  itself  with  Omnipotent  Cause 

That  the  subject  shall  grow  to  be  ruler  of  laws, 

When  life's  first  and  last,  the  Electrical  Rule, 
That  calls  for  no  priest  and  is  learned  in  no  school, 
The  true  law  of  growth  of  each  soul  toward  its  best, 
Without  forcing  or  check,  shall  be  known  and  confessed ; 
When  each  life,  like  a  flower  relieved  of  a  weight, 
May  outfill  its  o\vn  stature,  though  tiny  or  great, 
And  as  happier  ages  glide  into  the  past, 
stature  grow  nobly  angelic,  at  last. 


BACKWARD    AND,  ,FCK,V/APD; '  '  49 

Backward  and  Forward. 


Exultant,  yet  with  panting  breath, 
Upon  an  eminence  attained 
We  pause  to  rest, 

To  cleanse  our  garments  from  the  dust 
That  had  defiled  the  valley  road 

And,  from  the  mountain's  crest, 
Gaze  down  the  path  by  which  we  came. 
Like  silent  tongues  of  hidden  flame, 
The  sullen  heat 
Lights  all  below 
In  quivering  glow; 
With  varying  beat, 
It  pulses  swiftly  up  the  track, 
As  if  it  longed  to  drag  us  back. 

On  either  hand  huge  rocks  are  piled 
That  make  the  wilderness  more  wild, 

And  towering  trees, 
Grown  old  with  time,  yet  unsubdued, 
Scarce  whisper  in  the  solitude; 

The  tender,   wandering  breeze 
Flits  in  and  out,  and  lays  a  leaf  to  rest 
Upon  the  mossy  earth,  and  breathes,  "  'Tis  best." 
"And this  is  all," 
We  think  and  sigh, 
But  from  the  sky 
A  fluttering  call 
Bids  us  take  up  our  staff  again, 
For  grander,  higher  heights  remain. 

*  ***** 

Almost  we  stand  upon  the  ridge 
Between  the  "This"  and  "That"— the  bridge 
&     That  joins  yet  parts 


50  MESSAGES    FROM  THE  WATCH  TOWER. 

The  cycle  gone  and  one  to  come: 

The  loud-voiced  Past  grows  strangely  dumb 

And  lays  its  vengeful  darts 
In  awe-struck,  wondering  silence,  down 
Beside  the  tottering  cross  and  crown. 

The  monarchy  of  force, 

The  power  of  might 

To  rule  the  right, 

Will  soon  have  run  its  course, 
And  nations  will  forget  the  skill 
Which  armed  and  sent  them  forth  to  kill. 

The  hot  pollution  of  the  strife, 
With  all  its  waste  of  human  life, 

Sinks,  quivenng,  back; 
From  heights  that  hold  the  cooling  shade, 
From  groves  no  feeble  hand  hath  made, 

Across  the  downward  track, 
A  message  from  high  Heaven  floats 
In  ringing,  clear,  unwavering  notes: — 
"Arise,  O  Soul,  and  climb! 
For  life  is  here 

And  Heaven  draws  near 
Within  the  years  of  time! 
Forget  the  sin  that  lies  behind — 
The  greed  of  gain,  which  hates  its  kind — 
Press  on  to  that  which  lies  before, 
Where  man  shall  learn  of  war  no  more!  " 


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